The Collector by John Fowles has been on my mental 'to read' pile for years. Perhaps I never got round to it because I didn't want another of his to usurp what was one of my favourite, The French Liutenant's Woman?

I borrowed The Collector from the library a few weeks ago, as I have on several occasions without actually reading it, but I started reading it today and am intrigued by the set-up, and Fred Clegg's infant abandonment by his 'painted' mother, following the death of his father, and then, as a teen, by the death of his uncle.

Fred collects butterflies, a perfect analogy for what how he watches, (stalks), then plans to capture Miranda, a beautiful, slight, art student with pale golden hair, which he achieves fairly early on. I'm sure I'll have finished it by the end of this week.

Despite having had today off to make up for working the weekend, I still didn't write. I had a few naps with strange dreams - one to do with fear of my viva - and then I went for a run along the river, the cold snap perfect, (I'm a novice runner, having always been more a sprinter, and have just begun a programme that will aim to get me 'from couch to 5k'. I just want to know when I can expect the endorphins to kick in), but still no writing. I thought about it, but that, whilst a part of it, isn't enough. What I've learned from writing thus far is that the thinking process is, for me, more often active whilst engaged in the act of writing; whilst the pen is swimming along the page, or the fingers are flitting from the home keys and back. And so I know it waits.


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